she touched it to her tongue, she knew she was right. Definitely butter.
Somebody was sabotaging the food, turning the lowcal into megacal. Gretel started to have a tingling sensation in her shoulders and arms. It was the sort of feeling you have when you believe something, yet know you canât possibly be right. She thought she saw her grandmother in the pantry. Truly, she did. If it hadnât been such a ridiculous notion, Gretel would have sworn that her grandmother was rearranging the cans and jars right then. Everything Thea had set into alphabetical order was being reorganized into food groups: The pickled items were together. The legumes were relegated to a separate section. The soups all stood in a row, from tomato to salt-free chicken-noodle.
Gretel squinted, but the image was hazy no matter how she tried to focus. Still, wasnât that her grandmotherâs good black dress? Werenât those the gold earrings Frieda had gotten on sale at Fortunoff?
âGrandma?â Gretel said.
Even if she could have responded, the image that appeared to be Gretelâs grandmother was too busy to speak. She was unscrewing the tops of jars where Thea kept her granola, her popcorn, her caramel-flavored rice cakes. To each she added a stick of butter. Friedaâs supply of butter seemed endless; all she had to do was reach into her pocket and out came stick after stick.
Gretel had never felt prouder of her grandmother. She smiled broadly, and although it seemed impossible, her grandmother smiled right back. Of course, this was difficult to gauge for certain as the image had now left the pantry and was headed for the counter where the cheesecake was waiting. When the image passed by, Gretel smelled something that reminded her of a rainy day. It was a scent so piercing and sweet it might have been an embrace. If her grandmother chose to add hot pepper flakes to the cherry sauce, well then, who was Gretel to argue? She was merely respecting the wishes of the dead when she walked back to the table, and she stopped only once, to whisper in her brotherâs ear.
âTake my advice,â she suggested. âSkip dessert.â
Fate
On ours street everything turned green in its own time, first the poplars and the lilacs, then the tender shoots of the iris my mother planted beside the patio the year before, when she thought she was dying. We had made a deal with the higher powers that if she lived to see the iris in the spring, sheâd go on living, sheâd be free and clear, and we were hopeful since spring was already here. But you canât make deals for everything; sooner or later you have to pay, and that was what seemed to be happening to my best friend Jill.
In Franconia, there wasnât a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen who wouldnât have been willing to change places with Jill for an hour or a day. We were all jealous of her, and for good reason. She had long blond hair and a sugar-sweet voice that made the boys crazy; she could eat five cupcakes without gaining an ounce. People were drawn to her, but they resented her too. They thought she had been granted more than her rightful share. Because Jill was my best friend, I spent a lot of time defending her. There were many who wanted to believe she was only beautiful on the outside, and that inside she was horrible and withered. They wanted to hear that in her heart of hearts she was as mean as a snake, she was a competitive bitch, a nightmare, a diva. But in fact, Jill was much too kind and generous. Whatever she had was yours, no questions asked. She cried at the drop of a hat, and embraced you just as quickly. Sheâd do almost anything if she saw a tear in your eye, and if you pleaded for mercy youâd win her over instantly, which was what had happened with Eddie LoPacca.
Jill didnât dare tell me she was pregnant until early spring; she was so thin I never would have guessed anything was amiss, except that she
Somebody was sabotaging the food, turning the lowcal into megacal. Gretel started to have a tingling sensation in her shoulders and arms. It was the sort of feeling you have when you believe something, yet know you canât possibly be right. She thought she saw her grandmother in the pantry. Truly, she did. If it hadnât been such a ridiculous notion, Gretel would have sworn that her grandmother was rearranging the cans and jars right then. Everything Thea had set into alphabetical order was being reorganized into food groups: The pickled items were together. The legumes were relegated to a separate section. The soups all stood in a row, from tomato to salt-free chicken-noodle.
Gretel squinted, but the image was hazy no matter how she tried to focus. Still, wasnât that her grandmotherâs good black dress? Werenât those the gold earrings Frieda had gotten on sale at Fortunoff?
âGrandma?â Gretel said.
Even if she could have responded, the image that appeared to be Gretelâs grandmother was too busy to speak. She was unscrewing the tops of jars where Thea kept her granola, her popcorn, her caramel-flavored rice cakes. To each she added a stick of butter. Friedaâs supply of butter seemed endless; all she had to do was reach into her pocket and out came stick after stick.
Gretel had never felt prouder of her grandmother. She smiled broadly, and although it seemed impossible, her grandmother smiled right back. Of course, this was difficult to gauge for certain as the image had now left the pantry and was headed for the counter where the cheesecake was waiting. When the image passed by, Gretel smelled something that reminded her of a rainy day. It was a scent so piercing and sweet it might have been an embrace. If her grandmother chose to add hot pepper flakes to the cherry sauce, well then, who was Gretel to argue? She was merely respecting the wishes of the dead when she walked back to the table, and she stopped only once, to whisper in her brotherâs ear.
âTake my advice,â she suggested. âSkip dessert.â
Fate
On ours street everything turned green in its own time, first the poplars and the lilacs, then the tender shoots of the iris my mother planted beside the patio the year before, when she thought she was dying. We had made a deal with the higher powers that if she lived to see the iris in the spring, sheâd go on living, sheâd be free and clear, and we were hopeful since spring was already here. But you canât make deals for everything; sooner or later you have to pay, and that was what seemed to be happening to my best friend Jill.
In Franconia, there wasnât a female between the ages of twelve and eighteen who wouldnât have been willing to change places with Jill for an hour or a day. We were all jealous of her, and for good reason. She had long blond hair and a sugar-sweet voice that made the boys crazy; she could eat five cupcakes without gaining an ounce. People were drawn to her, but they resented her too. They thought she had been granted more than her rightful share. Because Jill was my best friend, I spent a lot of time defending her. There were many who wanted to believe she was only beautiful on the outside, and that inside she was horrible and withered. They wanted to hear that in her heart of hearts she was as mean as a snake, she was a competitive bitch, a nightmare, a diva. But in fact, Jill was much too kind and generous. Whatever she had was yours, no questions asked. She cried at the drop of a hat, and embraced you just as quickly. Sheâd do almost anything if she saw a tear in your eye, and if you pleaded for mercy youâd win her over instantly, which was what had happened with Eddie LoPacca.
Jill didnât dare tell me she was pregnant until early spring; she was so thin I never would have guessed anything was amiss, except that she
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